


NBA Dark Universe

by NBADarkUniverse



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, Basketball, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NBADarkUniverse/pseuds/NBADarkUniverse





	1. The Wizard and The King

Marcin Gortat checked his watch. He was late for the meeting, but the jump point was close by, and he was hungry. He shoved the pizza slice into his mouth and glanced up at the television. Late game highlights from another match played on the screen, the Pelicans and Thunder, battling down to the wire. He wanted to stay and watch, but he knew the jump point in Salt Lake City closed early and before he was due back in Washington, he had a stop to make.  
  
The jump point was clean and well-kept, but as he walked the long corridor toward the jump bays a breeze rustled up a stack of newspapers sitting by the shuttered magazine stand. Caught by the breeze, one blew free from the bound stack and hit his leg—“Jazz triumph over Wiz, Hayward lays down 30.” Marcin winced as he recalled the game. As he approached the jump bay, he stroked his brushy goatee and flexed his fists and pulled a black knit cap atop his shiny dome. He couldn’t concern himself with his Wizards tonight. They could wait for tomorrow.  
  
“To Cleveland,” Marcin said to the attendant, almost shouting. “Northeast Ohio Sector.”  
  
* * *  
  
The elongated throne room was heated by a massive fireplace, and Channing knew they would soon need more wood. He took the tablet from his pocket and typed some commands into the digital interface. A BallBoy droid came to refresh the fire while Channing Frye directed his attention to the tablet alert, which indicated the contact had arrived in Northeast Ohio. With several clicks, he deployed a hoverspeed to the Cleveland jump point, and he watched as a small animation confirmed his request.  
  
Soon, The King would arrive.  
  
The throne room was prepped with some bite-sized desserts and small glasses of a semi-sweet port. As Channing was lighting a pyramid of candles arranged on the side table, K2 and RJ walked in. They spoked quietly in a corner of the room. Channing soon joined them.  
  
“Did the agent arrive?” RJ asked in a hushed tone. He was still on edge, it seemed, although he had nothing to fear in this stronghold.  
  
“He will arrive shortly,” Channing replied. K2 was quiet, as usual. He brushed his sandy blonde hair back and turned toward the fire, giving it his full attention. The rest of the Kingsmen were streaming in—the grand advisor Tyronn with his bamboo staff, a be-hooded Kyrie laughing under his breath, among others—and they mingled in front of the desserts, daintily holding port glasses. Several Kingsmen were clinking a toast when a hush descended on the room and they stood with their glasses still aloft.  
  
Raised glasses were, in any case, an appropriate greeting.  
  
The King strode in, his velvet cape fluttering behind him, his shoulders back and poised.  
  
“Bring in our visitor,” The King boomed. His instructions were, as usual, to no one in particular. A dark shadow scurried away from the throne room and soon the door at the rear of of the hall opened. An old-model BallBoy droid appeared from the enframing darkness, pulling behind him a thin carpet dais, floating perfectly horizontal three feet above the ground.  
  
Atop the carpet dais sat a huge pale figure, cross-legged on platform. His eyes were bound by a silk blindfold the color of wine, but otherwise the giant sat unrestricted. The King waved his hands toward the fireplace, and BallBoy effortlessly directed the floating dais and its occupant to the hearth.  
  
Shadows cast from the hearthfire danced on Marcin’s cheek as The King addressed him.  
  
“I’m sure you understand that you cannot set foot in this room. This dais is our… compromise for this ancient rule. Now, you sit among us, and are bound to secrecy.”  
“Three-One,” the Kingsmen murmured under their breath in response.  
  
Marcin nodded solemnly, and The King turned toward the fire. The elder Tyronn Lue approached the dais.  
  
“Gortat,” Tyronn began. “We have an opportunity for you. Two days from now you and your Wizards will play host to the Splash Brothers and their fellow Warriors. We have been searching for an opportunity in our simulations. The VoidVoice is alive with supernatural activity. And our visionary Kyrie has been reading tea-leaves and chewing beetlenut for guidance. At last, we believe a critical moment will emerge. And it will emerge in this game.”  
  
“Three-One,” several Kingsmen uttered, louder than before.  
  
Marcin nodded again, turning his face toward the elder advisor. Though the advisor was slightly hunched, his bamboo staff was held perfectly upright. As if for emphasis, Tyronn clicked the staff on the floor before he spoke again. The King’s gaze remained on the fire, meditating on the arcs of shadow cast by the flames.  
  
“The VoidVoice has indicated a weakness in the Splash Brother’s team. We cannot say how, for we do not know, exactly. The VoidVoice is often cryptic, but we have clarity on one matter. You will have an opportunity to alter the course of events.” Tyronn clicked his staff on the ground once more.  
  
“Three-One,” responses came once more, the loudest yet. The Kingsmen genuflected. The room came alive in anticipation.  
  
Marcin stroked his goatee in thought. “I am ready to act on your behalf, advisor,” Marcin stated after a moment of silence. He turned from Tyronn to the fire and then to The King. The blindfolded man straightened his back raised his head toward. “I am ready to serve you, my King.”

  



	2. Measure, Monitor, Make Buckets

The remote timer beeped pleasantly once the pan’s temperature reached 145 degrees. Klay rose from the float tank, dried off, and donned his gray sweatsuit. He opened the fridge. The filet was pink and glowing, and Klay studied its fatty seams as he carefully laid it down on the cutting board. Taking his knife, he bent forward, placing his eye within inches of the salmon as he cut through. The kitchen was silent and still; Klay could see each quarter tremble into a singular unit as he cut one after another away from the body. After washing his hands, he turned to the heated pan.  
  
He checked the temperature—it was stable at 145 degrees—and delicately laid the salmon on the pan. Skin crackled against cast iron.  
He worked silently, but it was as he was a player in an orchestra. He removed the quinoa soaking in fridge and drained it and ran fresh, cool water through it. He cut the broccoli into fine, digestible plumes. He poached an egg in just-boiling water. And just when he sensed the fat oozing from the cooked salmon, he slipped a thin spatula under the salmon—now a brighter pink with a plump, red center—and placed it on a plate.  
  
The cylindrical BodyMonitor spoke softly in its simulated female voice: “We will begin in ten seconds.”  
  
Klay sat at the low table in the dining room, plate in front of him.  
  
“Bite one. You have fourteen seconds to enjoy this bite. We recommend you begin with the protein.”  
  
He took a morsel of salmon. It was delicious, as always. He contemplated the taste as the BodyMonitor broadcast the beating of his heart over its speakers.  
“Bite two. You have fourteen seconds to enjoy this bite. We recommend you consume the greens.”  
  
Klay counted out his chews. The broccoli became a mush between his teeth; this pleased him.  
  
* * *  
  
When he had finished his meal, Klay took his empty plate to the kitchen and placed it in the dishwasher, then stood near the door to the dormitory hall.  
“Decompressing kitchen and dining room. Evacuating air south. Cool air venting, north,” the monitor stated. “You noted to visit with Rocco after dinner. Would you like me to prepare the space?”  
  
“Yes, absolutely,” Klay responded to the monitor.  
  
“Preparing living room. Deploying dog.” A pause, then, “You are cleared to see Rocco, Mr. Thompson. We will return when you desire.”

  


***

Draymond made the final notes in his Heads-Up reader, and placed the headset on the workbench. He felt just a hint of thirst when his BodyMonitor spoke clearly, almost sweetly, “We recommend a drink. Would you like some water? Or perhaps Concoction #4?”  
  
Draymond ignored the computer hovering just behind him. “Bring up Klay,” he said aloud. Klay’s unit was close by, but he wanted to get his thoughts down immediately and couldn’t risk being distracted by the others in the dormitory hall. Or an insistent BodyMonitor, for that matter.  
  
The screen above the workbench first flashed its initialization screen, and soon Klay appeared in view, lounging on a couch in his apartment with Rocco by his side.  
  
“Klay, your white paper was very… interesting. My work on the respirator is coming along, but I’m going at it from all angles. Your paper showed me you think through these things pretty directly. Very systematic. I like it.”  
  
Klay nodded, seeing Draymond would continue.  
  
“I’d like to try the timed eating system, what you’re calling “focused digestion,” but could you recommend a chef? You do your own cooking, I know that, but no doubt you’ll eventually automate it. Or at least outsource it?”  
  
“I haven’t thought through it,” Klay retorted. “I am not sure how much of my results are tied to the act of cooking. The issue of focused digestion needs more study. So I cannot say.”  
  
“Hmmm, ok.” Draymond studied his hands, a habit when he needed a second to think. After a moment he continued, “Well, it’s unlikely to have a negative effect. I’d recommend moving to different controlled settings. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have Steve and Andre set something up.”  
  
“Andre can cook,” Klay offered. Draymond took that as a irrelevant; he had meant that Andre (and Steve) could get the prompting system of the BodyMonitor up and running, and they could all think about how to best prepare the meals. Steph probably knew some good chefs for hire, too, or at least could ask Ayesha.  
  
“Well, I’ll talk to them at the meeting later today. You coming today? I mean, in the flesh?” Draymond knew the answer: Klay only rarely came to their bio-hacking group in person, and preferred to communicate with them through his screen display. Draymond couldn’t really account for this quirk of Klay’s. He suspected it had something to do with Klay’s relationship with the BodyMonitor device; they all used one, of course, but Klay had tailored its functions to nearly every aspect of his day. His extensive use, no doubt, had given Klay the idea for focused digestion.  
  
* * *  
  
After the bio-hacking meeting, the committee joined the rest of the Warriors in the dormitory hall. Steve had an announcement. In three weeks they were due for a game off-planet, a league-sponsored bid to please the residents of Colony Marsa. The bio-hacking committee had discussed the implications of such long-distance travel the Warriors’ body modifications, optimizations, and other hacks.  
  
“Remember guys,” Steve said. “Measure, Monitor, … Make Buckets.”  
  
The meeting adjourned as assistants were delegated to help individual Warriors. BallBoy droids streamed about, bringing chairs and workbenches for the assistants and players. BodyMonitors floated above the fray observing the action and their individual charges.  
  
Here, Draymond saw his chance to duck out. He wanted to leave the vault briefly, and made his way toward the Hall of Buckets. When he first became a Warrior, he had appreciated the opulent splendor of the Hall of Buckets—its tall white pillars and chiseled statues and marble floors, its touted direct terminal link to the Basketball SloanNet—but he had become virtually immune to its effect now. Today, he ignored it completely in his hurry to leave the Warrior’s arrondissement. Draymond’s mind focused instead on a small corner of real estate in the Outerworld, forgotten by the vault’s inhabitants.  
  
Draymond entered the garage past the Hall of Buckets, his BodyMonitor hovering several feet behind him. “Call up a hoverspeed” he told the device, pulling out his tablet as the hoverspeed stopped before him and opened its doors. Draymond seated himself in the hoverspeed and entered a tablet command for an old blacktop fifty miles past the vault’s limits.  
  
Outside, his BodyMonitor hovered near the door, and finally entered the vehicle as Draymond adjusted the interior climate. And they were off.  
As the hoverspeed zoomed toward vault threshold, Draymond’s BodyMonitor chirped at him.  
  
“You are about to enter the Outerworld. In one minute you will leave San Francisco Vault. We do not recommend entering the Outerworld. Please be aware and attentive to potential bodily consequences.”  
  
The hoverspeed flew from the vault and across the choppy gray water of the San Francisco Bay, and Draymond observed the SFV bulky and menacing as it clawed at the sky and, in the distance, a yellowing sunset dripping finally into the ocean.

  



End file.
